


A Tango for Two

by regardinglove



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Dance, Ballroom Dancing, Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Dancing, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Major Character Injury, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Reality TV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regardinglove/pseuds/regardinglove
Summary: Yuuri's lifelong dream has been to make his break into competitive dancing on the hit television series, A Tango For Two. The last thing he expected was for his celebrity crush, figure skating legend Victor Nikiforov, to become his celebrity dance partner.Or, a Dancing With the Stars AU





	A Tango for Two

**Author's Note:**

> I'm incredibly pleased to debut my first WIP fic for YOI! I've been working on this project for the better part of two months now, and I'm so excited to finally share it with all of you. Essentially, this is a 'Dancing With the Stars' AU, with Yuuri as the pro dancer and Victor as the celebrity partner. The idea came from [ this post on Tumblr](http://lavenderprose.tumblr.com/post/160347842749/astronahz-lavenderprose-astronahz-where-is), but besides the general concept (and one or two coincidences), this story is it's own entity. 
> 
> Throughout the story, I'll be linking music that is used for each routine. Feel free to listen as you read! I think it enhances the experience. At the end of each chapter, I'll also be posting both the music and the actual dance routine I based the fic routine off of (a lot of them are from the real DWTS or other dance programs). I encourage you to watch/listen as you read, but it's not necessary to understand the fic itself. 
> 
> This fic is a WIP. I don't have an update schedule yet, but I'm hoping once I get more of this written, I'll be able to have a more consistent plan to update. But between working full time and starting grad school in a few weeks, I'll most likely be updating whenever I find time. (If it makes you guys feel better though, the whole fic is planned out! I just need to, you know, write it.) 
> 
> And finally, I'd like thank two people who helped me with this fic, Luc (maydei) and Basia (belovedyuuri). Luc, thank you for being a kickass beta, listening to me when I had zero faith in my writing abilities, and helping out with a summary when I couldn't think of one. Basia, thank you for also being a kickass beta, letting me dump a thousand headcanons and ideas into our IM chat, and always being a light of encouragement to me. You both are gems. 
> 
> Also, thank YOU for taking the time to read my fic! I know a lot of people don't touch WIP fics, so I'm incredibly glad that you're giving this one a chance. 
> 
> You're all amazing!

When Yuuri was five years old, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life. One dream that he was determined to reach, no matter what the cost.

He was going to be a professional ballroom dancer on the hit competition series _A Tango for Two_.

Yuuri’s classmates made fun of him for it. They teased and taunted and tsked, called his goal ridiculous and far-fetched. How was a little boy from Japan going to get on an American dance show? It was impossible, they said. A stupid dream that never could come true.

But he was determined. He ignored the voices that told him no and instead listened to the ones who told him yes. His mother was the first one to support his dream, enrolling him in dance classes when he was eight. He learned how to twist and turn and twirl under Minako’s careful instruction, spending days and nights at her studio, dancing until he couldn’t anymore. He spent his free time at school practicing his footwork and his free nights perfecting his posture. He danced and danced and danced until his feet were a cacophony of black and blue and red, sometimes swollen to twice their normal size.

By the time he was ten, he was known as the town enigma, the oddball. He’d run through the streets after school, waving to the neighbors as he passed with his dance bag hoisted over his shoulder. They thought they were being discreet, but Yuuri heard what they said about him.

_Crazy boy. Dreamer of impossible dreams. Never going to make it in America._

He brushed them off, told himself he’d prove them all wrong. Their doubts fueled him as he bounded into the competitive years, pushed him to get faster and stronger and _better_. He spent all his free time at Minako’s and worked until he was curled over the barre, heaving breaths and drenched in sweat. He began dominating his field, winning so often that his parents joked there wasn’t enough room at the onsen for all his trophies. And the more he excelled, the more people began whispering his name behind closed doors, talking about the boy who danced like his life depended on it and moved like molten gold.

 _He’s unstoppable,_ they said. _Unbeatable. A force greater than a hurricane._

As he got older, the whispers morphed again.

 _He’s the best in Japan,_ they perused. _The most talented dancer in the country._

And then again, when he turned eighteen and was offered the job of a lifetime.

 _He’s destined for greatness,_ they praised. _He is going to bring glory to Hasetsu, you know. The first Japanese dancer on_ A Tango for Two.

Yuuri remembers those words now as he flies across the ballroom floor. Sweat drips from his brow and soaks through his black button down, making the fabric stick to his body. A bubbly, pop-synth beat pounds over the speakers and he moves his hips to the woman’s voice, lapping up the audience’s hoots and hollers as he performs a rather sensual body roll. His troupemates, Guang-Hong and Phichit, saunter up to his side, and together they fall into a synchronized foot sequence, flashing overcooked smiles for the cameras and winking at the right time. They turn their backs to Yuuri and lean against him as the music comes to a close, then bring their hands up in the infamous Charlie’s Angels pose.

Applause rings out around them and Yuuri soaks it in. Praise is like ambrosia to a dancer’s soul and tonight he relishes in it, waving enthusiastically to the crowd before knocking his elbows against his troupemates and exiting the stage. The three of them disappear behind closed curtains and break out into childish laughter once they’re out of the camera’s view, tossing their arms around each other as they catch their breath and come down from their collective high.

“I can’t believe we just did that!” Guang-Hong exclaims, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His brunette hair falls in his face and he blows the flyaway strands off of his lips. “That was your best choreography yet, Yuuri!.”

“Excuse me, are you forgetting the time we did that King and the Skater number he created?” Phichit replies incredulously. He breaks their embrace and points at a long-forgotten rack of costumes from earlier in the season. “I am _offended_.”

“You bribed Yuuri to do that one; it doesn’t count,” Guang-Hong replies with the flip of his hand.

“It totally counts!”

“Does _not_.”

“Does _too_.”

“Um, I’m right here?” Yuuri says, but they don’t listen. Instead, Phichit and Guang-Hong make their way over to the costume rack, pulling out long-forgotten glittery numbers as they argue over old dances. They hiss under their breath and Yuuri turns his back to them. Instead of listening to their bickering, he quietly tiptoes to peer around the ruby, velvet curtain that hides the haphazardly placed props from the eagle eye of the cameras. His gaze wanders past the orchestra that’s playing a quiet classical tune and focuses on the bodies moving in the ballroom instead.

Gliding across the center is Mila, fiery red hair catching in the wind as she falls in line with Masumi, her partner. She flashes her pink painted lips and twirls three times, black as night dress flying up all around her. The crowd oohs at her beautiful form and whistles when she kicks her leg in the air, showing off a golden shoe that Yuuri knows is designer. He glances down and sees her falling into perfect formation, and as the billowing orchestra crescendos, she does too, reaching above her head as Masumi wraps his arms around her middle and lifts her into the air. Gasps ring out from the audience at the spectacle and Yuuri gasps along, mouth open as he takes in the beauty of the scene before him. They’re stunning, ethereal, _magical_ , and it’s in that moment, with Mila in the air looking like an angel descending from the heavens above, that Yuuri remembers  _why_ they call everything in the ballroom love.

All too soon, Mila drops back to the ground and the moment is broken. Her and Masumi perform three more turns before stepping out into an ending pose, hands clasped together with their gaze looking skyward. The audience roars their delight and Yuuri finds himself clutching the curtain’s fold, floored beyond belief.

“Yuuri!” Guang-Hong’s voice echoes through the rafters, breaking his concentration. He turns around and feels a rosy blush color his cheeks when he finds his troupemates smirking at him.

Yuuri rubs the back of his neck and toes the ground. “Uh, sorry,” he mutters under his breath.

Guang-Hong’s smile turns soft and he walks over to knock his arm against Yuuri’s. “Your time will come,” he says cheerfully. “I know how much you want to be out of the troupe.”

Yuuri blushes harder and waves his hands in the air. “No! No, no, no, it’s not that at all, I _couldn’t—”_

“Calm down, Katsuki!” Phichit exclaims. “We all want to move up from this someday.”

“Of course,” Guang-Hong chimes in. He rolls up onto his tiptoes and peers over Phichit’s shoulder, back towards the line of dressing rooms that have the professional dancers names plastered on in glittery script. “My name would look good in gold, don’t you think?”

“What he’s trying to say,” Phichit interrupts with a playful smirk, “is that we all have bigger dreams than this. And it’s okay to want more.”

Yuuri shrugs and glances at the floor. “I guess.”

“No, not ‘I guess’. I _know_.” Phichit grabs Yuuri’s chin between his fingers and jerks his head up until he’s looking Phichit in the eye. “You should want more than this. You deserve more than this. And don’t even try to argue with the team captain,” he says when he sees Yuuri’s mouth half open.

Yuuri jerks his face out of Phichit’s grip and blushes softly. He knows it’s no use to argue, so instead he forces a smile and nods in agreement.

His lackluster response is enough for Phichit. He drapes his arms around Yuuri and Guang-Hong’s waists and guides them down toward their team dressing room, hyping them up for the big group number they’re performing in a few minutes. Yuuri hums at the right places and tries to pay attention, but his mind drifts elsewhere as they shed their black button downs and dance shoes for their newest getup.

Phichit’s earlier words echo through his thoughts again and again. _It’s okay to want more_. Yuuri wants to believe it, but there’s a part of him that can’t even believe he’s made it this far. The boy with impossible dreams is now the man living out his childhood fantasy, being on a stage with the best ballroom dancers in the world.

But regardless, there’s a gaping hunger within Yuuri that he can’t deny. It rears it’s head when he watches professionals like Mila capture the attention of millions, or listens to Emil talk about how thrilling it is to connect with a partner. It punches him in the gut every time he’s shooed off the stage before applause even starts, never being allowed to claim his own glory, or sees the coveted Golden Ring be passed off to a new winner, year after year.

Yes, he’s thankful for what he has, but Phichit is right. He does want more. He _needs_ more.

“Yuuri? Are you okay?”

Yuuri startles at the hand on his shoulder and glances up. Guang-Hong is looking at him with wide, concerned eyes and Phichit’s bottom lip is pinned between his teeth, brow furrowed. It’s only then that he looks down and realizes he’s only half dressed, so distracted by his own thoughts that he barely has his shirt on right.

“Oh uh, yeah,” he mumbles.

“Well, then hurry up!” Guang-Hong exclaims. “We’re on in five.”

Yuuri hums in understanding and gets up from the ground. He ties the laces of his shoes and accepts a hat from Phichit. After a quick adjustment, he looks in the mirror and cringes at what he sees. They all look ridiculous, clad in bright green, mesh tops that flash their bare midriffs, accompanied by gaudy blue snapbacks and black Converse. Yuuri can feel his cheeks heat with embarrassment.

“We look stupid,” Yuuri mutters under his breath.

“Speak for yourself; I look fantastic,” Phichit replies.

“It doesn’t matter what we look like if we’re going to be late. C’mon!” Guang-Hong says, then grabs their arms and drags them out of the room.

Their little trio sprints down the hallway, dodging antsy P.A.s and producers alike. Yuuri nearly trips on an outlying wire, but Guang-Hong kicks it out of his path last minute. He sends him a grateful smile as they emerge into the backstage area, but he doesn’t see if Guang-Hong returns it before a horde of makeup artists are in his face, attacking him with powder brushes and _—_ to his horror _—_ glitter. He lets them douse him in gold and doesn’t say a word as they comment on his permanently unruly hair, then is shoved off onto the ballroom floor with his troupemates at his heels.

The audience whispers as they take their positions center stage. Lights are dimmed and cameras aren’t rolling, but a wild energy is in the air, palpable for all. It’s teasing, tickling, waiting for those spotlights to rise and music to play. Yuuri feels it, hones it as the camera crew begin counting down to showtime.

_Ten, nine…_

Yuuri glances over at Phichit, then Guang-Hong, flashing them encouraging grins and mouthing ‘good luck’.

_Eight, seven, six, five…_

He toes the ground with his shoe, curls his hands into loose fists as the familiar thrum of age-old anxiety runs through him.

_Four…_

Yuuri takes five deep breaths, steels himself. He can do this. He _will_ do this.

_Three, two…_

He blinks against the lights as they hit his face and catches a glimpse of the judges table. It’s a small comfort, seeing Lilia tapping her pen against her chin and Christophe grinning at the team in encouragement.

_One…_

He turns his gaze to the camera….

_Action!_

...and takes off.

* * *

The three months between competitive seasons are always a double-edged sword. On the one hand, Yuuri’s thankful for the time off. He always flies back to Hasetsu and spends time with his family, working at the onsen and spoiling Vicchan, his beloved dog. He gets to relax in the hot springs and binge watch bad reality television with Mari, and nothing is better than walking through his well-loved hometown, greeting the neighbors he grew up with, and eating his mother’s katsudon.

But there’s a restless energy that comes with the break, one that he can never shake off. During the competitive season, most of his waking hours are in rehearsal, choreographing routine after routine for the troupe. His feet are constantly moving, bruised and sometimes bloodied by the end of the day, muscles aching with use. It’s exhausting and exhilarating and enchanting at all once, and going three months without that buzz gets him chomping at the bit to get back on the ballroom floor. Dancing by himself can’t scratch the competitive itch inside.

Which is why when he steps onto the set of _A Tango for Two_ on a sultry August morning, a breezy calm rises within him. He breathes in the scent of motor oil and burning asphalt that always comes with L.A. summers and wanders through the soundstages, waving at the camera crew and nodding at the “welcome back” calls he gets from the production team. His eyes scan the lot, lighting up when he takes in the carts of old costumes that pass him by, rumbling against the bumpy ground. He wanders a little further and hears the telltale, angry yelling of Georgi and Anya from the alleyway, and sure enough when he rounds a corner he finds them there, fingers pointed at one another as they bicker in Russian.

Yuuri smiles timidly and continues on into the main building. Cool air rushes around him as he pushes through the back doors and he sighs in relief, relishing at the temperature change. On shooting days, everyone is required to wear their regulation t-shirts, and Yuuri’s is sticking to him like a second skin. The taut muscles of his chest and abs stick out through the already thin, purple fabric, to the point where it’s almost indecent. The hem barely hits the top of his hips, and as he dodges the line of anxious interns milling about, Yuuri internally berates himself for not reading the instructions before he washed it.

He forgets that thought as he emerges into the backstage area. Bags of all colors and sizes are piled up next to the stage entrance. He drops his duffel filled with dance shoes and sweaty towels on top of the others and fishes his official staff badge from the front pocket. A tiny spark of warmth runs through him when he reads ‘Yuuri Katsuki, Troupe Dancer,’ and stays as he clips it to the waist of his pants.

After pulling his t-shirt away from his body and being sure he doesn’t reek, Yuuri walks through the velvet curtains and into the ballroom. It’s just as he left it— wooden floors worn and well loved, oversized fans whirring above his head, glittery judges table glinting in the dim lighting. The smell of floor wax and cleaning fluid lingers in the air, accompanied by the low rumble of producer voices. Dancers new and old are chatting with each other, catching up on their summer vacations and betting who is going to be paired up with the worst celebrity. And the coveted Golden Ring is perched in the middle of the room, a reminder of what all the pros are fighting for.

 _Ah,_ he thinks. _I’m home._

“Yuuuuuri!” a high pitched voice rings out behind him.

Yuuri spins on his heel and finds a blur of brunette hair and a purple shirt bounding towards him. Before he can properly react, he’s met with an armful of Yuuko, warm body pressing into his as she wraps her arms around his middle and spins them around.

He giggles into her hair and curls his fingers around her shoulders, pushing back so he can look her in the eye. “Hey, Yuuko.”

Yuuko blushes and tugs out the wrinkles in her tee. Her badge is pinned to the hem of her shirt and she plays with the plastic ID as she says, “I can’t believe it’s a new season already. Seems like just yesterday we were here, doesn’t it?”

Yuuri looks around at the crowd that has now filled the ballroom. Anya and Georgi are back from their fight, hands tucked away in each other’s back pockets as they talk quietly to one another. Mila is gesturing animatedly towards the Golden Ring, probably rehashing her epic win to their new professionals, a neutral-faced dancer named Otabek, and Masumi, who, to everyone’s delight, was offered a position on the show after Mila guided him to victory last season. Leo, Emil, and Isabella are all sitting on the judges table, feet dangling over the side as they laugh at some unheard joke. And Seung-Gil is tapping away at his phone in the corner, looking annoyed as ever.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, flutter of contentment appearing in his gut. “It really does.”

Yuuko laughs and bops her head up and down, bouncing along to the upbeat pop song that’s blaring in the background. She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear and then looks him over, up and down, before saying, “Did they order you the wrong size shirt?”

Yuuri lets out a groan and fruitlessly pulls at the fabric. “Is it that bad?”

“You look like a stripper who’s rent is due tomorrow,” a voice rings out behind him.

Arms curl around his middle and Yuuri buckles under the touch, a laugh escaping his lips. Phichit’s face is inches from his, a thousand watt grin as bright as the lights above their heads. He lets go of Yuuri and steps back before saying, “You know, next time you spend two months in Japan, get your phone working faster.”

Yuuri lets out a laugh and shakes his head. “Phichit, I was off the grid for a week and a half.”

“Which is too long! Do you know how many Instagram posts you missed? How many times my texts bounced back to me? Unbelievable,” Phichit teases.

Yuuri opens his mouth to respond, but finds himself pulled up short when he glances down and sees the badge that’s attached to Phichit’s pocket.

“Judge?” he exclaims, loud enough to draw attention from the other dancers.

Phichit beams in front of him and yanks the badge from its perch. “I know, right? Celestino called me into his office just now and told me the news. Guess they needed a buffer for Chris and Lilia,” he says with a small smile. He clips it back onto his pocket and nudges Yuuri in the shoulder. “Told you we’d get out of the troupe one day.”

Yuuri’s heart thumps against his chest, hard. _Did Phichit say...we?_

“Katsuki!” an unfamiliar looking production assistant hollers from the sidelines. “Celestino is looking for you.”

Yuuri jumps as his name being called and turns back to Yuuko and Phichit. They’re both smirking widely, arms crossed over their middles as they look at each other with knowing eyes.

“...What’s going on?” Yuuri asks.

“Don’t ask _us_ ,” Yuuko says, then flaps her hand towards the ruby curtains that lead to backstage. “Ask Celestino. He’s the executive, after all.” When Yuuri doesn’t move right away, Yuuko sighs and gently nudges him on with her foot. “I mean it; go!”

He doesn’t have to be told twice; he takes off and leaves his friends behind. Yuuri pushes past the curtains and turns right, cringing when he hears his name whispered in hushed conversation. It feels like everyone’s eyes are on him, so he picks up his pace and practically runs the rest of the way, keeping his head down as he navigates through the soundstage and back towards the main building where all the production offices are located.

Yuuri navigates past the front desk, barely muttering a ‘hello’ to the overeager receptionist before he barges into the elevator and hits the button for the seventh floor. He taps his foot as the elevator climbs and climbs, clenches his hands into fists before letting them relax.

After what feels like ages, the doors open and Yuuri bounds past a group of executives in suits, almost knocking them over. He calls an apology over his shoulder but doesn’t slow down. He can’t. Phichit’s earlier words are repeating themselves like a mantra in his mind, and Yuuri keeps honing in on that incredible, impossible _we_. What did he mean? What is Yuuri getting into?

He doesn’t get to think it over too much before he approaches a well-known door. ‘Celestino Cialdini, Executive Producer’ is penned in elegant script on the pearly glass, and Yuuri knocks three times before he hears a muffled “Come in.”

Yuuri pushes into the office and looks around, taking in the scene before him. Giant bookshelves lined with dictionaries and cheesy romance novels take up the entire back wall, framing a wide window that looks out over the slate-colored, L.A. skyline. A cool draft filters in through the overhead vents and wafts the scent of old cigars around, making Yuuri’s nose wrinkle in disgust. And in the center of the room is a wide, oak desk where Celestino is seated, head bowed as if in prayer towards the stack of papers in front of him.

“Take a seat,” Celestino says without looking up, and Yuuri complies. He falls into one of the padded, rust-colored chairs that takes up the space in front of Celestino’s desk and curls his fingers around the armrests, clutching tightly.

“Do you know why I called you here today, Yuuri?” Celestino asks.

Yuuri shakes his head. “No, uh, I don’t,” he manages to get out through slightly clenched teeth.

Celestino raises his head and props his elbows up on his desk. His fingers flip through whatever forms he was mulling over earlier, and Yuuri’s heart leaps when he sees that it’s his personnel file, filled with contracts and headshots and news clippings from forever ago.

“First place at the Junior Ballroom Championships three years in a row. Five wins during your collegiate career in Detroit. And three years dancing for us.” He lets the file close with a muted thud. “Quite impressive, don’t you think?”

Yuuri doesn’t respond, instead just glances down at his knees and says, “Celestino...why am I here?”

Celestino laughs quietly to himself and slams his palm down on his thighs, making Yuuri jump in surprise. He jerks his head up and clenches the chair harder when he sees Celestino looking at him with charged eyes, lips curled up into an amused grin.

“You’re here because you’re talented, Yuuri,” Celestino says. He leans back in his chair and folds his fingers together on his chest, kicking his foot up so it’s rested against the tabletop. “And I think your talents aren’t being used to their full potential.” He pauses, levels a cool, collective glance at Yuuri. “I think you know that too.”

“I...uh…”

“Don’t be modest,” Celestino interrupts with the flick of his hand before he leans forward and grabs a framed photo from his desk. It’s one of the entire professional team, huddled together after last year’s finale. Everyone is practically glowing, flashing newly whitened teeth and blushing cheeks, arms curled around one another. And in the background Yuuri spots himself, tiny and looking on at the group with what can only be described as desire in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be back there,” Celestino says. “You should be _there_.”

Yuuri can’t help the tiny gasp that escapes his lips when he sees Celestino’s finger hovers over the professionals. _No way_.

“Celestino...I...uh...wha? _”_

“It’s already been decided,” Celestino interrupts, and when Yuuri looks up he finds Celestino holding up a newly pressed badge.

_Yuuri Katsuki, Professional Dancer_

“We’d love to have you as a pro this year, if you’re willing.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. His eyes glance between the badge and Celestino, towards the door and lights above his head. That earlier nervous, anxious sweat is pooling again on his skin, and he feels like his heart is thrumming like a hummingbird in his chest.

Of course he wants to say yes. It’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. But also, that tiny, dark place inside him crawls out of the woodwork, drops a single thought into his mind that has him reeling.

_Can you do it?_

Yuuri closes his eyes, tries to fight back, but it goes again.

_You worked for years to get here. What if you screw up? What if you let your partner down?_

“Yuuri? Are you okay?” Celestino asks when he doesn’t reply.

Yuuri’s eyes fly open and only then realizes that he’s clutching the chair so hard that his knuckles are white.

“Uh, yes. I think so,” he gets out, but his voice is unsteady and unsure. “I just...need a minute.”

Celestino’s face softens and he nods in understanding, reaching behind his head to tighten his ponytail. He stands up, pushing away some papers in the process, and replies, “Very well. I wanted to grab a coffee anyway, so you can think it over while I’m gone. I’ll be right back. But Yuuri,” he says quietly as he walks away, “...I know you would set this ballroom ablaze.”

Once he hears the faint clacking of footsteps fade, Yuuri curls himself up in the chair and leans back into the cushy fabric. He can feel those earlier, dark doubts beginning to rise again, so he focuses on a water stained ceiling tile above his head and tries to remember what Minako told him as a child, back when even the smallest of competition would send him into a frenzy.

_Breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Center yourself. Remember that you deserve this._

And so Yuuri does exactly that. He breathes in, holds it, then lets it out in one blow. He closes his eyes and remembers his hometown, envisions the calming ocean waves and the grinning, encouraging faces of Minako and Mari and his parents. He recalls all of those competition wins, the social media blow-up that happened when he was promoted to troupe choreographer last year. He centers himself, feels the cool release of calmness overcome him.

Then, when the quivering in his body begins to fade and he’s almost at the edge of peace, he recalls Minako’s final piece of advice, the one thing that would always, without a doubt, bring him happiness.

Remember _him._

Yuuri does. His eyes flutter shut and suddenly he’s not in Celestino’s office. Instead, he lets a familiar daydream play out in his head, one where he’s dancing a Golden Ring winning routine with his longest, most impossible crush.

It always begins like this: Yuuri is alone in the middle of the ballroom, a warm, bright spotlight perched over his head. He looks up and takes in the audience, a gaggle of faceless people who await his first move. They whisper as the cameramen count down, and once action is announced they fall quiet.

A tinny, mournful melody begins to play through the speakers overhead. A man sings about losing the one you love, of being alone, and Yuuri absorbs those words as he begins to dance. He falls forward in a sweeping motion, brushing his fingers against the floor before coming up again. His eyes fly heavenward and he reaches until his arm feels as if it’s going to pop. His feet follow the steps of a waltz, carefully pattering across the hardwood, and his arms rest at his sides, useless without a partner to hold.

But then, the tune changes. A female voice joins in with the male on the record, and a familiar figure joins Yuuri in the ballroom. Hot breath brushes the back of Yuuri’s neck, accompanying a taut, sleek body. He doesn’t need to look to know who it is, standing there, brushing up against him, long fingers creating indents on his hips.

Flowing silver hair, rippling down his back like a waterfall.

Bowstring lips, pulled into an impossibly beautiful smirk.

Electric blue eyes, bright enough to set the world on fire.

Victor Nikiforov.

The blaring of a distant car horn from the street below pulls Yuuri back into the present and he feels his cheeks heat. Even though it does calm him down, he still can’t help but feel embarrassed whenever he imagines dancing with Victor. Maybe it’s because he’s had this dream for years and it feels almost childish at this point, a crush that he should’ve given up ages ago.

But Victor has been a part of his life for so long now; Yuuri _can’t_ stop imagining what it would be like to dance with his idol. The daydream is too ingrained, has been ever since he was twelve years old. He’ll never forget that day he first saw Victor on the onsen’s fuzzy television screen. Minako was lounging with the other guests, making her way through a bottle of sake, while Mari sat attentively at her side, eyes unblinking as she watched a Chinese skater run through a free program at the Junior Grand Prix. Yuuri was busy folding towels at the next table over and only glanced up on occasion, but even he couldn’t ignore the excited claps and hollers that rang out from Minako and Mari when a skater named Victor was announced.

The first thing Yuuri noticed was his beauty. Long, silver hair was pulled back into a ponytail, flying behind him as he took the ice. His eyes shone like the ocean outside Minako’s dance studio, crystal clear and deep enough to get lost in. The costume he wore was bedazzled in large, gleaming jewels over a mesh material, and zigzagging lines connected it all together.

Beautiful.

He took his place in the center of the ice and the onlookers fell into a hush. Mari and Minako leaned in closer, hands coming up to rest over their mouths in early anticipation for what was the come. Yuuri abandoned the towels he was folding and instead focused on that ethereal creature on his screen, now posed with both hands over his heart.

[A single piano note](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3o5YtTPvJ0) rang out and Victor took off, curling in on himself as he glided forward on the ice. He went slow at first, melding with the quiet, trilling melody of the music as he flew into his first jump (Mari leaned over and told him it’s a triple axel). His eyes followed Victor as he landed back to earth perfectly and continued on, falling into a flitting step sequence that had him twirling around the ice before entering a flying sit spin. He was an unbeatable, exquisite monster out there, it was no question; never a foot out of place, never a jump missed. And when the music ended and Victor’s final pose was struck, the audience wasn’t the only ones who was left in awe. Yuuri couldn’t find his voice, too caught up in watching Victor smiling at the camera and giving a cheeky wink before disappearing to the kiss and cry.

Yuuri was enchanted, and from that day forward watched every competition, kept tabs on every interview and magazine clip he could get his hands on. His childhood bedroom was plastered with posters, printed out articles and fan art. Mari lightheartedly teased him for it, and his parents didn’t really understand why he decided to add figure skating to his exercise plan, but they supported him regardless. They took him to Ice Castle after his long days at the studio and didn’t question when he wanted to stay there after hours. They bought him every magazine their tiny local convenience store could get their hands on and didn’t bat an eye when he went to his first international competition in a bedazzled shirt that greatly resembled Victor’s Grand Prix outfit. And when he got older and moved to Detroit for school and training, they promised to keep the memorabilia he left behind intact.

Looking back, he knows it was a bit of an obsession he had, but how could one not become enamored by the likes of Victor Nikiforov?

The office door clicks open and Yuuri turns in his chair, attention diverted from his fantasy. Celestino steps back into the room with a massive cup of iced coffee in one hand, phone in the other. His eyes are warm when he looks at Yuuri, encouraging as he walks back to his desk and gracefully sits down, then raises an eyebrow when he says, “Well? What do you say?”

Yuuri rubs his thumb against the inside of his palm and closes his eyes. He remembers all the recitals he performed in as a child, anxious and unsure. He’d hide backstage until it was his time to dance, and it took Minako holding his hand and promising him katsudon to coax him out. He was that way for years, the scared little boy who couldn’t do anything on his own, but he pushed past it, grew stronger, wiser. Between Minako’s wise advice and seeing a therapist, he found his own way, was able to push past his own self doubts. It’s how he got to where he is now, sitting in Celestino’s office being offered his dream job. Is he going to let himself give this up?

 _Victor wouldn’t_ , Yuuri reminds himself. _You can’t either._

“Yes,” he says after a long pause, eyes flying open again. “I accept.”

“Excellent!” Celestino says, long and exaggerated. He pulls his lips up into a impossibly wide grin and shuffles papers around on his desk until they’re in a neat pile. “I’m glad, because it’s a little too late to find someone else.”

“Why’s that?” Yuuri asks.

Celestino just laughs. “Because, Yuuri, your partner is waiting to meet you.”

* * *

There’s a longheld tradition on _A Tango for Two_. Every year, the professionals travel to meet their partner in their natural habitat. Some go to dance halls, others go to baseball fields. There was one year when Yuuko was partnered with a Radio City Rockette and actually flew to New York. It’s all a big production, one that Yuuri never really understood. Why go through all that effort? Surely it would be easier for everyone to meet in one place.

But now, as he’s ushered into a limo with darkened windows and an air of secrecy, he understands a bit more why everyone loves this part. There’s a thrumming feeling in his body, anticipation brewing just below the surface of his skin. It’s exciting and new and thrilling, enough that he can barely sit still, acting like a kid on Christmas.

They only drive a few blocks before the car slows to a stop. The cameramen he’s travelling with exit first and tell him to stay put; they need to get a good shot of his reaction, after all. So Yuuri waits as they set up their supplies and chat with one another, trying his best to sneak a peek through the tiny crack of light they’re letting in. From his angle, the only thing he can make out in the letter ‘L’, glinting into his eyes uncomfortably.

“We’re rolling,” one of the men grunts a few minutes later, and Yuuri quickly adjusts his glasses and runs his hands over his hair. He breathes in, lets it out, then walks into the unknown.

Sun blinds him as he exits the limo, but when his eyes adjust he takes in the building and lets a tiny, embarrassing gasp escape his lips.

He’s standing in front of Victor Nikiforov’s ice rink.

Granted, it’s not _really_ Victor’s training rink. Everyone knows that he mostly trains in St. Petersburg under Yakov Feltsman, a grumpy, harsh coach who has been with Victor since his junior days. But when he takes his summer trips to America, he always trains here, drafting his new routines and catching up with his fellow skaters before the competitive season begins. Yuuri would know; he’s spent one too many summers adjusting his running path to go past this very rink, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’d catch even a glimpse of the man he’s admired for so long.

“Well? What do you think?” one of the crew asks him.

Yuuri can’t get any words out. He’s too busy trying to be rational about all of this, tries to tell himself that it’s merely a coincidence. Just because he’s meeting his partner at this ice rink doesn’t mean it’s going to be Victor. There’s hundreds of figure skaters who have voiced their love for the show and said they’d be on it, if given the chance. It could be anyone, he tells himself. No need to get his hopes up.

But there’s a tiny, traitorous part of himself that imagines what it would be like, walking in there and seeing his idol face to face. How would he react? Laugh? Cry? Make a fool out of himself? His chest flutters just thinking about it.

“Yuuri?” the crewmember asks him again, and Yuuri shakes his head back and forth a few times before looking at him.

“Uh, sorry,” he mumbles out. “It’s...uh...great! I’ve been a...uh...fan of the sport for a long time and can’t wait to see who is inside.”

The crewmember nods in approval and twirls his finger in the air, indicating a wrap. Yuuri lets out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding and glances up at the familiar building. It’s fancy, looking like a glittering, new diamond among the older edifices surrounding it. The exterior is all glass, like a fishbowl, and as he’s guided inside he’s greeted by an equally modern interior. Freshly polished, white tile floors dovetail with the pristine cream-colored walls. Giant LCD TVs are perched around the lobby, showing various hockey games and old competition reruns. The reception desk is made of charcoal marble, and delicate, twinkling pendants are suspended above his head.

Yuuri gulps. Of course Victor would choose to train here. It’s gorgeous, fit for someone of his caliber.

He doesn’t get to admire it for long. Before he knows it he’s being dragged off to the locker rooms and shoved into an impromptu makeup chair. The woman working barely lets him get a word in edgewise as she brushes powder over his nose and comments on his impeccable skin, and then he is shoved off onto a P.A. who clearly is new and terrified of stepping a foot out of line. He calls Yuuri “Mr. Katsuki” and stumbles over his words as he leads Yuuri through a series of complex tunnels, only stopping when they come across a rink that has a “PRIVATE EVENT” sign plastered on the doors.

“Everyone’s waiting in there,” the P.A. explains, pulling open one of the doors for him. “Just keep walking until you reach the barrier. A camera will be rolling, so be mindful of that. And uh,” he says, eyes finding the floor instead of Yuuri’s, “Mr. Cialdini told me to, uh, tell you to not freak out.”

“Not freak out? What the—umph!” Yuuri nearly falls on his face when the P.A. pushes him through the doors and whispers “go go go!” under his breath.

He manages to reorient himself after he hears the doors click closed behind him. The tunnel he’s in is dark, but up ahead he can see the faint, bright lights of the rink. He begins walking towards it, and as he approaches Yuuri begins hearing noises, words. The sound of blades scratching across the ice intermixes with a deep, antagonistic voice muttering criticisms.

When Yuuri reaches the edge of the tunnel, he braces himself against his knees and takes a deep breath. An energy he can’t explain dances across his skin, making the hair on his arms rise. It’s as if his body knows what’s waiting for him before his mind does.

“Yuuri? We need you!” he hears a voice call from the rink. “We don’t have all day!”

Yuuri gulps and nods to no one in particular. _I can do this_ , he tells himself. _Just go._

And so he does.

The lights hit him first, bright, fluorescent overheads that contrast with the dark tunnel he was standing in a few seconds ago. He blinks a few times before his vision clears, and when it does he takes in the ice before him. It is pearly white and riddled with blade marks, and the rink’s logo is painted into the center. The bleachers across from him are empty besides a few of the camera crew, and a large zamboni is lingering on the outskirts, clearly waiting for them to shoot their footage and get out.

“Your footwork is terrible!” a voice calls out to his right, and Yuuri’s ears perk up at the tone.

He knows that voice. He’s heard it a thousand times before, yelling from the sidelines after a finished routine or whispering Russian under his breath in the kiss and cry. It’s Yakov Feltsman’s voice, which can only mean…

“I’m _trying_ ,” an equally Russian voice calls out, clearly irritated. “Can’t you let me be for once?”

 _No_.

Yuuri turns on his heel and nearly falls over at what he finds. Lounging against the rink’s barrier is the man who has haunted his dreams for years now, the one he can never forget.

Flowing silver hair, rippling down his back like a waterfall.

Bowstring lips, pulled into an impossibly beautiful smirk.

Electric blue eyes, bright enough to set the world on fire.

Victor Nikiforov.

“What is happening?” he whispers to himself as his eyes rake in all of Victor’s beauty, standing only a few feet away from him. His iconic silver hair is pulled up into a ponytail and his hands reach behind his head to adjust the tightness. His ‘Team Russia’ t-shirt is sticking to his body, drenched in sweat from the practice they were having before the camera crew showed up, and his legs look like sculpted marble in a pair of Lululemon leggings (Yuuri would know that brand anywhere; he owns five pairs of his own). His lips are chapped from the cold and his cerulean blue eyes are tracing a pattern into the boards, clearly uninterested in whatever Yakov is whispering in his ear.

He’s like a god and Yuuri already feels lightheaded from the exposure. It has to be a mistake. It just has to.

But then Victor glances up and looks right at him from across the room. Those lips he’s imagined in a plethora of (sometimes indecent) fantasies curl up into a wide, gleaming smile, and Yuuri forgets how to even breathe.

“Yuuri!” he calls out from across the rink, waving his arms for him to come over.

Yuuri just stands in place, utterly shellshocked. _How does he know my name?_

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go over there!” he hears his director yell from the sidelines, and that pulls him back into reality. He begins walking quickly, and the closer he gets to Victor, the more his head feels like it’s filled with air. Nothing about this feels real. It’s as if he’s in a dream, a great one that will burst at any moment.

When he reaches the barrier, Victor skates over to his side and waddles off the ice. He accepts his blade guards from a clearly disgruntled Yakov and puts them on, then stands in front of Yuuri with his hip cocked out.

“Yuuri.” Victor says his name in a low voice, one that sounds more like a purr than anything else. He pushes Yuuri’s chin up with his finger, bringing their already close faces nearly inches apart. “Starting today, you’re my new coach. You’re going to take me all the way to the finale, and we’re going to win.”

Then, because the world and God and anything holy is out to get him, Victor _winks_.

He can’t...he _can’t do this right now._

“Yuuri!” Victor exclaims, but it’s too late.

Yuuri’s already sprinting out of the rink as fast as he can, breath heaving in his chest as he goes. He doesn’t listen to the caws from the production team that are calling for him to come back, or ponders the crumpled, disappointed look on Victor’s face when he bolted. Instead, Yuuri focuses on the rhythm of his feet pounding against the rubber floor, the feel of the chilly air brushing against his bare arms. He runs until the darkness of the tunnel captures him again and he emerges through the double doors, nearly knocking over the P.A. who was guiding him earlier. He whispers an apology but doesn’t slow down; instead, he continues on until he bursts through the main entrance, running until he finds a tiny, deserted alleyway littered with days old trash and debris. His feet slow, and when he knows he’s far enough away that no one will find him, Yuuri collapses against the brick wall, hides his face in his hands, and yells.

**Author's Note:**

> ROUTINES USED IN THIS CHAPTER
> 
> None
> 
> MUSIC USED IN THIS CHAPTER
> 
> [Pilgrims on a Long Journey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3o5YtTPvJ0)


End file.
